Thoughts from the Frontier
by A.T. Seawright
Summary: A series of one-shots, based on various characters and moments from the movie and a few of my own speculation. Warning: here there be angst.
1. The Whole Planet

She loved him. There had never been a question of that, she had always loved him. But the first day that it occurred to he to leave him, it was over. She had never been the kind of woman who did or thought about things in a half-hearted manner. That was one of the things that had brought them together to begin with, the zeal for life, their utter devotion to everything they attempted. He had left that morning as he did every morning, before she was really awake, dropping a kiss on her forehead before slipping out. And he'd come home for lunch, as usual. The day, it was nothing out of the ordinary.

That was the horrible thought that had started all of this. It had come to her after he'd left the second time, after she waved goodbye to the man she'd sworn to spend the rest of her life with. In the beginning, that had been a beautiful thing. They were happy, blissful. They had always had their arguments; the same cynical nature that they both shared, the tendency to make snappish comments at things, had been one of the things that had drawn them together. But they were happy, weren't they? They were content. But she didn't want to be content, and if he was still the man she married, he didn't want to just be content, either.

She got up, made herself a cup of coffee, sat back down. It was mid-afternoon by now, and she'd been sitting for nearly four hours, but she'd hardly moved. And oh, god, she realized that the very things that made her love him were the very things that being with her had taken away from him. She put a hand to her mouth, already gone down a path of thought that, in spite of being convoluted and treacherous, could only lead to one destination. If she left him now, he would find someone else. Could she really handle that thought? The thought of him, her husband, loving, touching, holding someone else sent a wave of nausea over her.

She held her head in both hands, and took a deep, shaky breath. She wished she could wish away these thoughts, go back to her happy existence, but she knew in her heart that it was much too late for that, wasn't it?

He came through the door, bag in hand, and stopped in the doorway, watching her. In the setting sun, she saw him, in her mind's eye, the way she had always seen him. Same hair, same nose, mouth, lips she had kissed, the same solid form she had held and been held by. The same vivid eyes. And in that moment, she burned his face into her mind, tattooed his features on her heart forever.

She loved him, more than she had ever loved anyone, more than she had ever thought herself capable of loving anyone or anything. He lifted a hand, ran it through his hair, obviously aware that she was watching him. She could open her mouth right now, tell him that she loved him, make him dinner and take him to bed. She could still change her mind.

She looked down at the cold cup of coffee she hadn't touched since she made it, saw her reflection, overlaid on his in his mind, his silhouette against the glow of the western sun like a stencil in her heart that everything else must be compared to. Then, she looked back up at him, pressed her lips together, and took a deep breath, surprisingly steady.

"Leonard," she said, her own voice foreign as it broke the silence, "we need a divorce."


	2. The Greatest Gift

My wife asked me once, when we were still dating, how I'd want to die if I had the chance to choose. It was one of those get-to-know-each-other conversations, and at the time, I laughed at the randomness of the question. Freezing, I said, because people who'd almost died that way said it was like falling asleep. But right now, at this moment, I realize that I'm not going to end up dying the way I planned to. I realize that nothing in my life is going to end up the way I planned it to. There is a single second of clarity, an undeniable decision that is already made for me as I watch the display in front of me, warning me of the destruction of the ship's auto pilot function. I realize that the display may as well be signaling the end of George Kirk.

I try to tell myself I have a choice, but I know in my heart, I know from the sinking, desperate feeling that washes over my soul, that everything I have worked so hard to become, the person I have hoped I would be, will not allow me to make any choice but the one I have already made. I try to talk my mind into walking away, I can still go to the shuttle, and maybe, just maybe we'll all get out of this together. But I know the odds of that are not nearly so good as the ones I can make for my wife, my family, if I'm not with her, if I stay here and see this through.

This is not the way it was supposed to be. I know it's not, there was so much more I was supposed to be, so many things I've never had the chance to do or say. I can feel a tightness rising in my throat at the thought that I will never look into her eyes again. It threatens to choke the breath out of my very soul. What have I done to deserve this? What horrible sin have I committed that higher powers have decided that I do not have the right to watch my child grow up, that everything I have ever worked for can be snatched away so cruelly and suddenly?

The sound of my baby's first gasping cries echoes over the comm, echoing the cloying, choking sobs that threaten to erupt from my own lungs. It is the most beautiful thing I have ever heard, and it is listening to it that gives me the final resolve I need. Other fathers are asked to give things up for their children - money, cars, those kinds of things. Here in my child's first moment of life, I am expected to give something no one else can give but me, the one thing that eclipses every other. Today, for the family that will have to find a way to move on without me, I will give my life, and I will hope that it is enough. It is all I have.


	3. Forgiveness

It is so strange, how in a single moment, your actions can save another person's life, or in that same instant, a life can be lost. A whole life, thousands of moments of love, hate, of the little impulses that were never acted on, the secrets that were never told that will now lie unspoken forever - gone. It's like water, so amazingly powerful and yet, you can't hold onto it anymore than you can the wind. Chekov walks, until he thinks he must have walked a hundred miles in circles around this ship, and then, he stops, sliding down the wall until he's sitting against it, burying his head in his hands. It wasn't his fault, of course, how could he have helped it? But didn't he just save two other people, who were falling even faster?

He tries to tell himself that he couldn't have done anything about it. The distance was too short for even his reflexes to have been able to save her. But it doesn't help, nothing helps the feeling that he had someone else's life, right there in his grasp, and he let it go. It makes him realize exactly how fragile life is, how fragile his own life is. At seventeen, he's still going through that phase where it seems you must be invincible, untouchable, especially when you're more gifted than people twice your age. But this, this is different. This calls it all up to trial, leads him to reconsider things he thought were solid truth.

He is still sitting there an hour later when footsteps sound down the hall, growing closer with each second he stays there. He hopes the person will just walk by, and leave him, but it seems all his luck has decided to abandon him on one day, because a pair of feet stops right in front of him. Chekov hazards a glance upward, following black pants to blue top, and realizes that the man in front of him is probably the very last person in the universe he wants to see right now. He knows he should say something, knows that an apology is in order, but how do you apologize to someone for something like this? There are no words, in any language, especially those this young man is familiar with, that can express the utter guilt and shame in his heart right now.

"I..." he begins, but his own voice is an abomination in the air, a horrible noise that he knows can only make things worse.

Spock looks down at him, his expression unreadable, and Chekov feels as if his soul lies exposed in the air between them. Then, Spock extends a hand, and warily, the younger man takes it. In one effortless motion, the Vulcan pulls him to his feet, and they stand, Chekov looking up at him, eyes shining with unshed tears of guilt and shame.

"I tried." he whispers, hoarsely, but for some reason, he feels like it's a lie. "I couldn't..."

"I do not hold you responsible for the events that have transpired." Spock says, after a moment of agonizing silence. "Someone must face justice for this. But it is not you, Ensign. This burden is not yours to bear."

Chekov suddenly finds himself unable to reply, unable to breathe, as Spock turns without waiting for a response and heads down the hall. But even as he watches the Vulcan go, he feels better, only slightly, but enough that he is able to compose himself, enough that he no longer feels as if he cannot possibly go back to the duties he has been stationed here to perform. And that is enough.


	4. Passage

I knew from the first time I saw him that he was capable of this. I don't know how; the evidence certainly wasn't there. He was an arrogant, self-absorbed child, making excuses for himself that even he couldn't really believe. And today, I look up at him, and I wonder what exactly it is that's changed. He's still cocky, it's obvious from the twitch of the corner of his mouth that he's suppressing a smirk, and there's a shine in his eyes that can only be self-satisfaction. But as I shake his hand, I know there's something different.

What is it about Starfleet that does this to people? There's something about the call of the universe that takes the brightest and best, and makes them better - but even more, it takes the ones who aren't the geniuses, aren't the daring heroes, and it holds them to those same standards. This young man, I think, was a mixture of those two. He was brilliant, that much was obvious from the start, but there's a quality there now, something indicated in the simple act of a handshake, that wasn't there before.

I've watched him move through this place, leaving his mark wherever he has gone. I have watched him make stupid mistakes, correct them, learn from them (some more easily than others), but most of all, I've watched him transition from undisciplined rabble-rouser into this young man who stands in front of me now. He has become everything I hoped that he would be, the first time I met him.

When I was assigned the USS Kelvin for my dissertation, I could never have imagined that it would have the profound impact on my life that it has. It was one of the most fascinating things I had ever taken it upon myself to study. The story was a fascinating and inspiring one, but there was an element of tragedy, one most people dismissed as a heroic example of Starfleet's best. I spent hours writing my dissertation, but I spent as many again contemplating the final thoughts of George Kirk. What went through someone's mind when they were faced with that kind of decision?

Some people say that you don't choose your destiny, it chooses you. Looking back, I'm certain that I've been used in the creation of James Kirk's destiny. Everything I have done and studied seems to have led to this moment. I'm not as bothered by that as I might be. What's the use arguing with destiny? I was meant to study the Kelvin, if not for my own career ambitions, then surely so that I would know the right things to say that night when I was given that brief conversation in which to convince this young man of his calling in life. I was meant to endure the things I was put through on the Romulan ship, if only for him to prove himself in a rescue.

It is, in a sense, the evolution of the Starfleet officer. The future of this institution does not lie with the straight-laced, by the book students who know all the answers by heart. It can be found instead in the ones who do not necessarily follow the textbook, the ones who are capable of writing answers of their own when there are none to be found. George Kirk had that, and perhaps it is arrogant of me to think this, but I believe that it has been my duty, my solemn privilege, to carry the message he was unable to bring here himself. I have bridged the distance between that man and his son, and there is only one thing I have left to give before that passage is complete, one more thing he has to know before he is ready to go out and take his calling to the universe.

"Your father would be proud."


	5. Meld

I just came ten feet from dying. It wasn't the first time, but you never really get used to that kind of danger. All you can do is learn to move on once you've survived it. If you don't survive it, well, no one really knows how you feel at that last moment, how it feels to die. Nobody knows because no one who's done it has ever been around to tell anyone else about it. Maybe that's why we're so afraid of it. I'm not afraid right now, not anymore. It's over, and I'm still shaking, I think my heart is still recovering from the experience, but I'm not scared. I'm confused as hell because, in light of the identity of the person who saved me, everything I assumed to be a constant is now as breakable as my own life has just proven to be.

The explanation he gives before he places his hand against my face is hopelessly inadequate for the rush of everything that sweeps over me at the initiation of the meld. My skin is numb, and I can't even feel his fingers on it, but the wave of emotion that overtakes me is more intense than anything I have ever known.

It is breathtaking. I see galaxies, I see faces, people, I hear voices, remember things I have never done. I realize in an instant that this is another of those things that no one who has experienced can ever explain to someone who has not. At first, I'm curious. I want to know more, and that knowledge is given in response to my unasked questions. But as I...as we draw closer to the end, I understand things I don't want to understand. I feel things I should not feel, I cannot possibly fathom.

All of my curiosity is gone in a second, blown away by a sweeping wave of grief more potent than any sadness I have ever experienced myself. I lost a father, years ago, a father I have never known, and when I was a child, I cried because I wished I could bring him back. I thought I had reason for tears. I thought my own situation was surely as tragic as one any young man has ever experienced.

I know now how wrong I was. How can my life even compare to the utter loss, the complete desolation and despair that this man feels? I feel it, as if it is my own, and I think it may tear the breath out of me. I gasp, choking for air. There is such sadness, a grief so deep, and he cannot express it. But I can. This, I decide, is what dying must feel like.

And then, I feel the burden lessen as he ends the connection, and I tear myself away from him, the horror clenching tight around my lungs and heart as I try to go back to breathing the way I should. I feel the sting of tears in my eyes, and for a moment, I want to fall onto the floor and sob like a child.

He says something, some explanation about how emotional transfer happens with this kind of thing, but I'm not listening yet. I try to regain my composure, I have to summon every ounce of will power in me to do it, but I manage to calm my breathing and blink the tears away. I have to do the things I need to do, and I can't be in the kind of condition I know I was just seconds from falling into.

Later, though, as we make our way across the snowy landscape, the freezing gale biting at our faces, my face is red, my skin raw, and my sight is blinded by bitter tears. I'm prepared to say that they're the result of the air, making my eyes water the way wind has a tendency to do. I'm glad he doesn't notice, or doesn't ask, because I think he could see through the lie. Because the truth is, although the pain has faded, I can't think now that the echo of that horror will ever fade entirely. Like the man who shared it with me, I will lock it away. I will not speak of it after today. But I don't know if I will ever forget it.


End file.
